that door. There were two types of wards he had to concern himself with: enemy wards and invisibility wards. Enemy wards were the most commonly used, because once placed, they lasted several days. They had to be attuned to a particular person, however, and that person had to be physically present when the ward was laid.
Invisibility wards were used sparingly if at all because shroud mages like Janto were rare and invisibility wards barely lasted an hour before having to be laid again. Such wards kept Warders so busy that they were typically only placed if there was reason to suspect a shroud mage was in operation, and then only in the immediate areas where the shroud mage was expected to be.
For the next hour, Janto amused himself daydreaming about Rhianne. What if their countries had never gone to war and they’d met in a routine diplomatic visit? Not that Mosar and Kjall had engaged in much diplomacy before the war. But if they had, he might have met her at a state dinner. Danced with her, maybe. What would they have thought of each other if they’d met in such a way?
A knocking noise roused him. One of the guards opened a tiny window in the door, looked through it, and nodded. The other unbarred the door. Janto was on his feet, and the moment they had it open to let the other man come out—another guard, as it happened—he slipped inside, turning sideways to avoid him.
As the door slammed shut behind him and the bar crashed home, he felt a jolt of reflexive terror—would he ever get back out? But of course he would. That door had to open several times a day, if for no other reason than to bring in food and water and swap out the guards.
The lighting was dim inside the prison, just some faint light-glows mounted sparingly, but he could see well enough. To his relief, the cell doors, though solid iron at the bottom, were barred at the top, allowing him to see in. To his left was a sort of guard room with cots and tables, where two guards sat, chatting quietly. To his right was the first cell, which was empty. He walked on.
The next cell housed a yellow-haired Riorcan. Beyond it, the prison hallway took a sharp turn to the left.
Janto soon discovered that the prison was a square that looped back on itself, with the prison cells on the outside of the square. On the inside were interrogation rooms. The complex was smaller than he’d expected and sparsely occupied. There were only four prisoners in residence, and none of them were Mosari. His trip had been a waste of time.
Ral-Vaddis was not here.
Rhianne shielded her eyes from the lights. They made the pain stab like the Soldier’s own pike inside her head.
“. . . Wouldn’t you say so?” said Marcella beside her.
“What?” Rhianne tried to recall the beginning of Marcella’s question. Thank the gods this was the last social event of the day. She’d had all she could stand of constricting gowns, small talk, insincere smiles, and Augustan Ceres.
“Wouldn’t you say the pyrotechnics outdid themselves tonight?” repeated Marcella.
“Oh yes. Absolutely.” A hideous display. With their magical light show, set to music from the imperial orchestra, they’d reenacted Augustan’s capture of some Mosari stronghold right there in the ballroom. How strange to see brutality and bloodshed in the midst of silk hangings, polished floors, and chandeliers. The scene was ugly enough in its own right, but worse was looking around at the delighted faces of her fellows. Could they really see slaughter and destruction as something to be proud of? She could not help thinking of how the spectacle would make Janto feel, and she was ashamed.
Marcella’s smile dimmed. “Are you all right?”
“I’m feeling wretched,” said Rhianne, braving the bright lights to meet Marcella’s eyes. Cerinthus, Marcella’s husband, sat beside her, but he rarely said a word in Rhianne’s presence; he seemed intimidated by her rank. “It’s been too long a day for me.”
“Ought you not to go up to your rooms and rest? Surely your uncle will understand.”
“He told me I was attending or else.” Rhianne smiled grimly and sipped the wine, her fourth glass. At dinner, closely watched by her uncle, she’d abstained, but now Florian was making a tour of the ballroom, introducing her fiance-to-be to her second and third cousins and the visiting officers from the northern front. Rhianne was making up for lost time.
“Won’t the wine make your headache worse?” asked Marcella.
“No,” said Rhianne, blinking in irritation at the lights. “It won’t make it better either, but it’ll make me not mind so much having one.”
“In that case . . .” With a wink, Marcella poured the contents of her own glass into Rhianne’s.
Rhianne grinned. “I knew there was a reason we were friends.”
She turned to see how far Florian had progressed in his tour and how much time she had left before she’d have to perform the odious chore of dancing with Augustan. There was Florian—seated and engaged in a heated argument with a first-rank tribune. She smiled wryly; her uncle did so love a good verbal sparring. Not that he played fair. Winning an argument with the emperor could prove fatal to one’s career, so his opponents always made sure they lost.
Nearby, Augustan yelled at someone, a Riorcan slave woman who fled from him, cradling a tray of wineglasses. The scene gave Rhianne pause. She couldn’t tell what had caused the incident. Augustan turned, caught her eye, and smiled. She could not bring herself to smile back at him. Instead, she looked away and hoped it would discourage him from approaching.
No such luck. He showed up at her table minutes later with a steaming tea mug in his hand. “Rhianne. You look stunning as always.”
Marcella and Cerinthus rose from their seats, as did Rhianne, wincing at the pain in her head. “Legatus Ceres,” she said formally. “These are my friends Tribune Cerinthus Antius and his wife, Marcella.”
Augustan took in the insignia on Cerinthus’s uniform that marked him as third rank and gave him a dismissive nod.
As they sat, he turned to Rhianne and pushed the mug toward her. “I brought you a drink. Spicebush tea. It’s fine stuff—we brought it back from Mosar.”
Rhianne indicated her wineglass. “Thank you, but I already have a drink.”
He smiled indulgently. “My dear, it is your fourth glass. I know you do not wish to appear unseemly.”
She stared at him, incredulous. Had he been watching her this entire time, keeping track of how much wine she drank? “Thank you, but I don’t care for tea.”
“Try it. Perhaps you will develop a taste for it.” He pushed the mug closer to her and edged her wineglass away.
Rhianne considered how much trouble she would be in with Florian if she threw a mug of spicebush tea into Augustan’s face.
“Well, if you are not thirsty,” said Augustan, a line of irritation appearing in his brow, “I believe the crowd is eager for us to begin the dancing. Shall we?”
“With respect, Legatus, I’m not feeling well enough this evening to dance.”
He stiffened with affront. “Indeed? I beg your pardon. I thought you the very picture of health.” He got up from the table and walked away.
Rhianne slumped in her seat, infuriated, yet relieved he was gone. Who was he to tell her what to drink and act like she was faking when she said she wasn’t feeling well? She shoved the tea away and gulped her wine. Marcella’s hand fell upon hers in sympathy. Cerinthus stared at her in horror.
Moments later, Emperor Florian slid into the seat next to Rhianne. “Leave us,” he barked to Marcella and Cerinthus, who scrambled to their feet and departed. “Rhianne, you are being unacceptably uncooperative.”
“I’m not feeling well.”
He glared at her.
“He’s rude, Uncle. He tried to force me to drink tea because he thought I’d had too much wine—”
“You
“And now he wants me to dance, when I have a headache that would send the Soldier himself packing off to bed.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Do you think when Augustan is feeling poorly, he cancels the war for the day?”
